They stepped out into a wide hallway illuminated by soft white lights, the fluorescents humming faintly overhead in a steady, unobtrusive drone that blended with the distant clatter of keyboards and muffled voices from adjacent rooms. The air was warmer here, scented faintly with printer ink—sharp and metallic, a remnant of fresh runs—and fresh coffee, its rich, roasted undertones wafting from a nearby break area, familiar hallmarks of office mornings that carried the subtle tang of productivity laced with routine.
Mr. Lan led the way toward one of the private conference rooms, pushing the door open with a practiced nudge of his shoulder, the panel yielding with a soft click of the latch, releasing a puff of recirculated air that stirred the papers on the central table.
Inside, the room was spacious but uncluttered—a long table of polished walnut stretching the length, its surface gleaming under the diffused light; glass walls on one side, etched with subtle privacy frosting that veiled the hallway beyond; a large screen on the opposite wall, dark and expectant, its frame slim and unassuming; and chairs neatly aligned as though waiting for a presentation, ergonomic backs curved in identical repose, cushions upholstered in neutral gray.
Winter light seeped through the frosted glass panelling, giving the room a muted glow—a pale, silvery haze that softened corners and cast elongated shadows across the floor, the outside's chill pressing faintly against the panes like a held breath.
Wei entered quietly, his steps padded and measured on the low-pile carpet, placing the black folder containing his draft on the table with a gentle placement, the leatherette whispering against wood. He took a seat near the window, his posture straight but relaxed, spine aligning fluidly against the backrest, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the folder as though holding it in place—a subtle anchor, tips tracing the seam without intent.
Mr. Lan sat opposite him, adjusting his scarf before easing into the chair with a more serious expression than he had worn downstairs—the wool uncoiling from his neck with a faint rustle, folded neatly over the arm; his features settling into lines of focused concern, brows knitting just enough to deepen the creases.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence that settled between them wasn't discomfort—it was the kind of pause that came before important words, heavy with anticipation yet unpressured, the room's hush amplifying the faint tick of a wall clock and the distant sigh of the building's vents.
Finally, Mr. Lan folded his hands on the table, palms pressing flat against the surface, fingers interlacing with deliberate calm.
"Wei… about your last book."
Wei lifted his gaze slowly, eyes steady, calm, receptive—irises dark and unblinking, meeting the older man's without evasion, the winter light catching faint highlights in their depths.
"I'm listening."
Mr. Lan inhaled, choosing his words with thoughtful precision, chest rising and falling in a measured draw, the air escaping in a soft prelude.
"The board loved the writing, of course."
A small smile, brief and genuine, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening the gravity.
"They always do. But there was… a shift in the emotional tone. Something heavier. Something… more personal, perhaps."
Wei's fingers tapped once against the folder—a barely noticeable motion, a single, muted thrum that echoed faintly in the quiet, nail against leather like a punctuation unspoken.
"Personal?"
"Yes," Mr. Lan continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows settling on the table's edge, his posture bridging the space between them.
"Some readers felt the theme was… lonelier than your usual work. More introspective. There's a sense of longing in the writing—as if you were reaching for something that never reached back."
Wei's eyes lowered to the table, his lashes casting delicate shadows across his skin—fine, feathered lines that trembled faintly with the blink, the wood's grain blurring under his focus.
His voice, when it came, was soft enough to blend with the hum of the heater—a low murmur, intimate in its restraint, carrying the subtle husk of introspection.
"I write what the story needs."
"I know," Mr. Lan said gently, the reassurance threading through like a steady hand on a shoulder, tone warm against the room's cool undercurrent.
"But this… felt like more than story."
The words lingered between them, floating in the stillness of the room like a truth neither wanted to fully name—suspended in the air, heavy yet fragile, the heater's drone underscoring their weight without intrusion.
Outside, snow continued to fall—slow, persistent, quiet—brushing against the glass as though reminding Wei of the winter that had always lived somewhere beneath his silence, flakes adhering briefly to the frost before sliding in translucent trails, the world beyond reduced to a veiled watercolor of grays and whites.
He sat perfectly still, expression unreadable, but something in the depth of his eyes shifted—a flicker so faint it could have been imagined, a subtle darkening at the edges, like ink bleeding into paper.
After a long breath—deep and unhurried, drawn from the core and released in a slow unfurl—he looked up again, gaze refocusing with quiet resolve.
"What did the board decide?"
Mr. Lan leaned back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the frames settling with a faint slide against skin, his posture opening in subtle release.
"Nothing negative," he reassured quickly, the words tumbling with earnest haste, hand gesturing lightly to emphasize the ease.
"They just want to understand the direction of your next work. And since that's what you brought today…"
He tapped the folder gently, fingertip drumming once against the cover in a rhythmic echo of Wei's earlier motion.
"…we should go over it together."
Wei nodded once, the movement fluid, almost graceful—a tilt of his chin that aligned with the light, shadows shifting across his throat.
"Very well. Let's begin."
But as he opened the folder, his fingertips brushed a small patch of cold condensation left by the melted snow on his coat—
and for one fleeting heartbeat,
it felt like another hand had touched his.
Soft. Warm. Familiar.
The sensation bloomed unbidden, a phantom pressure that ghosted over his skin, evoking the dream's haze—the encircling hold, the thumb's slow circle, the shared pulse beneath.
He blinked once, long and slow, steadying his breath before fully pulling himself into the meeting—lids lowering and lifting in deliberate cadence, the air in his lungs evening out to a measured rhythm.
The past receded like snow melting in sunlight—
but its echo remained,
quiet and persistent, a subtle vibration in his veins, lingering like the aftertaste of frost on the tongue.
To be continued...